


The Feast

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Valar Dohaeris [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Do-Over, F/M, Gen, King's Landing, Older Man/Younger Woman, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21588733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: Tywin moves his gaze from Sansa to his son, and watches in carefully concealed astonishment as Jaime transforms from slightly irritated but generally good spirited knight to battle-hardened soldier in an instant.“Excuse me, father,” his son says, pushing his goblet of water absently into Tywin’s hand and taking off toward the dance floor.Lord Lannister takes a sip from it himself, and thinks.***Jaime and Sansa dance with everyone else, then finally dance with each other.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark
Series: Valar Dohaeris [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1393039
Comments: 20
Kudos: 271





	The Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Hold onto your hats, kids. This one is a doozy.

**_s a n s a:_ **

As much as she wants to deny the Queen’s invitation there’s no way to do so without causing grave offense. Her family has been invited to sit nearest the royal family, and even if Cersei’s words are sweet while she croons “come, little dove. Sit by me,” her grip is punishing as Sansa is all but dragged to sit by her. 

She knows her outfit has likely pushed some buttons. Sansa had managed to sew herself a new dress for the feast of the Hand’s Tourney, and while the style is very much in line with that of the Southron ladies, of Queen Cersei, there is something distinct about the dress which stands out immediately. The fabric is not anything like the lovely pastels some of the ladies wear, and certainly nothing like the bright red and gold that the Queen always seems to be decked out in. No. The fabric she has chosen is _Stark_ gray, and navy. She may be in the Lion’s Den—she may be _married_ to a lion—but she is a **_wolf_ **and in this life she will not forget it. 

Or let anyone else make the same mistake. 

Whether the lack of her idolization causes Cersei any grief is a question that is soon forgotten. The wine in her goblet remains untouched, and Sansa has to fight the urge to slide her own goblet closer to Cersei who is on her third or fourth, she’s lost count. 

There’s something happening at the feast that has irritated the Queen even more than Sansa’s dress or polite avoidance to engage in any games. Jaime Lannister is _dancing_ and not only for just the one song for appearance sake. He is on his _fourth_ dancing partner, and while one of them include the eleven year old Arya Stark, his current lady is the Lady Margaery Tyrell, and if Cersei had the strength to break her goblet with her hand, Sansa is sure she would be doused in wine by now. 

“She’s so _lovely_ , don’t you think, Your Grace?” 

Her tone is wistful, full of awe. It’s certainly true. The former Queen Margaery had always been lovely, had always been smart and ambitious. And now that her own betrothal to Joffrey is not official, he is still available. For someone who had effortlessly managed to become Queen, who had become Queen to the safe and sweet Tommen after the Purple Wedding...it’s no true surprise to see the Rose of Highgarden charm her way across the great hall of the Keep. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa curtsies, excuses herself before the Queen can so much as reply—though there’s still enough time for her jaw to clench hard enough to grind stone—and breathes a little easier once there is more space between them. 

There is so much to be done. She watches as Baelish moves across the room, making pointed conversations. Whatever is to happen will come soon, and she makes a mental note to find Arya later. To remind her of the hints of what’s to come. She should find one of Varys’ birds too, check in, but there is a little time. And she’d like to have something a little more definitive. If Baelish will take a page out of his old games and pit families against one another, she would like to take measure of him first. 

“Why aren’t you dancing, sweetling?” 

Her father’s strong yet soft voice breaks her from her thoughts, and even now it’s still hard not to tear up at the sound of it. Ned Stark is here, alive, and Sansa’s answering smile is bright despite the fact that she feels younger than she ever has while standing by his side. 

“There’s time yet,” she answers as she wills her gaze not to try and locate her husband. There is a time, and if all goes well, soon there will be no need to hide her gaze. She will be able to dance with Jaime as much as she wishes, as long as she can manage to convince him. 

“No time like the present,” a voice interrupts and Sansa looks up from her father to find Prince Oberyn Martell, who smiles charmingly - completely unaffected by the Warden of the North’s hard stare. 

“Lady Sansa, I've never had a redhead before,” the Prince muses, pausing just at the right moment to make her father bristle, and Sansa does a poor job of hiding her amusement. “As a dance partner,” he clarifies, though she isn’t sure it helps matters any, before turning towards her and offering a hand gallantly. “Please do me the honor of remedying that, my lady.” 

“I would be honored, Prince Oberyn,” and Sansa takes the proffered hand and allows the Dornish prince to whisk her off. 

**_o b e r y n:_ **

These Stark women, they are a curious thing. He wondered throughout the years if Lyanna had some particular charm. Perhaps it was magic? But no, it seems to be genetic, for she is not the only Stark woman to have captivated men to the point of breaking their vows. 

Perhaps that is unfair. He has no evidence of wrongdoing on the Kingslayer’s part. But how dearly he would like to believe the Starks are raising their daughters in secret to be enchantresses and sorceresses. How dearly he would like to believe Rhaegar had not forsaken his sister for any fault of her own. 

Neither girl seems particularly outlandish. Yes, both girls are unusual—Arya, he already knows, is a spitfire, much better suited to Dorne than the rest of Westeros with their corsets and needlework. The elder is poised beyond her age, but beyond that, seems to be a perfect lady—but he can see no reason for there to be such fascination with them. Of course, that is overstating things a bit. The court at large is not fascinated with the Starks, or rather, they hadn’t been before tonight. There have been _whispers_ regarding Lady Sansa, but even those he had had to seek out. The fascination belongs entirely to Jaime Lannister. 

Why would the famed Kingslayer, a knight of the Kingsguard request training from a Prince of Dorne, on behalf of a child bearing no relation to him, a child by all accounts he had just met? It is a puzzle, and Oberyn _loves_ puzzles. Moreover, he loves the look this little slip of a girl has just put on Cersei Lannister’s face. The woman wearing his sister’s crown. 

If Ned Stark’s expression is anything to go by, the North is _not_ raising their daughters to be secret seductresses. Shame. The girl doesn’t blush, or stammer, and yet he knows she caught the innuendo by the way one eyebrow delicately arches, and a smile tries to over her lips. Perhaps she is interesting after all. 

“You are a vision, my Lady. This color suits you well,” he praises her as he twirls them away from her father onto the dance floor. This dance is quick and close, a favorite of his, closer to a Dornish style than most dances north of the Marches. He makes the most of it, and sends her his most rakish grin.

“I have been requested to train your younger sister in the arts of weaponry. It was a most peculiar conversation. I have since found myself with many questions about you and your sister, and your friends at court.”

**_S a n s a:_ **

It’s not until he all but sweeps her off into the middle of the dancing that Sansa remembers she doesn’t know how to best interact with the Red Viper. His arrival to King’s Landing in their first life hadn’t been until much later and...Well, she had left shortly thereafter. Joffrey’s wedding the Margaery had been both a relief and a disaster, and ultimately had caused her to flee.

She thinks she remembers of hearing of his death as Tyrion Lannister’s champion during his trial by combat.

None of that proves to be particularly useful in navigating a conversation with the Prince. Sansa tries harder, but ultimately comes up with nothing. Jon’s father had forsaken his vows to the Princess Elia in favor of her Aunt. She also thinks she remembers something about his reputation for flirting, for taking lovers in both women and men, and she finds it’s not terribly surprising given the particular jape he had given in front of her father. Prince Oberyn Martell might just be one of the most dangerous people in the room, and perhaps one of the only that Sansa isn’t quite confident that she knows how to navigate. Or manipulate.

“Thank you, my Prince,” she says with a small dip of her head. He’s _close_ , closer than any dance partner she’d had before, even Jaime on their wedding day. Whether it’s the style of the dance, or perhaps just the Dornish Prince’s style, she tries to keep up as best she can and lets him take the lead as they move. She’s unfamiliar with the dance, but he makes an excellent partner and the grin he sends her _almost_ —almost—causes her to laugh.

Perhaps he and her husband could get along, if they were willing to move past their families’ histories. For a moment there, she is utterly reminded of Jaime.

He speaks of her sister and Sansa tries to spy her amongst the crowd, but Prince Oberyn is graceful—and quick on his feet, just as he is with his words. “That would be most kind. My sister...” Sansa can only imagine Arya’s excitement at learning another weapon, but yet such another skilled duelist. Perhaps there is a way to teach her sister everything she needs to know in this life, without her ever having to learn of the Faceless...whatever it was that she had mentioned. She hopes so.

But now the pair are not only dancing with their feet. Their words take on new meaning, and despite how very smooth and charming the man who currently holds her is, there are still dangerous questions being probed, and one wrong answer could ruin everything.

She can’t afford to slip up now, not after she’s already put the plan in motion—then again, Prince Oberyn Martell had not been accounted for in any of them.

“Are we not all friends of the Court, my Prince?” She smiles up at him, and ignores the warmth on her cheeks when he steps closer for the next particular step of the dance. 

**_o b e r y n:_ **

She doesn’t move through the dance like a natural, her spine a bit too stiff, and her hips a bit too tight, but she looks better on the dance floor in her attempt than most the women around her. She does not dance like a little girl locked away in the snow in the North. Neither, he finds, a grin tugging on his lips, is she afraid of him. Women north of the Marches tremble in fear when the Red Viper approaches, mothers hide their daughters—and far too rarely their husbands—behind their skirts. But Sansa Stark is dancing to a Dornish song with a Dornishman, the _Prince_ of Dorne, no less. 

What a brave, brave girl she is. 

“...your sister?” He encourages. He’d like to know very much about her sister, and just as much about her. “Forgive me my curiosity, my lady, but are you not also interested in learning of weaponry?” He asks, very seriously, though he knows most women would be scandalized by the very idea. He pities them, truly. Surely embroidery is not so thrilling as to limit yourself to that singular activity for the rest of your life. 

He looks down at her, their faces far more close than he guesses her face has _ever_ been to another man’s. Her cheeks are flushed, but not with fear, and dare he say it, he spies a _smile_ on her lips. She makes her retort looking him dead in the eye, and he can’t help it, he throws his head back and laughs. They actually get off-beat for a moment before he can pull himself back together. 

“Oh my lady Sansa, no. No, indeed, I would say there are two, maybe three people in this room I would count as an ally, let alone a friend. The Dornish are not meant for the lands north of Dorne, or so the people of those lands would have you believe.” Oddly enough, while he initially assumed she was simply naive, taking a closer look at her, he can’t say for certain. Surely she can’t be that good, not Ned Stark’s daughter. 

...Can she? He wants to find out. 

“Tell me, my lady. If you had to pick one friend in this whole room, outside of your family, who would you pick, and why?”

**_S a n s a:_ **

She could only imagine the look on her lady mother’s face if she knew as they dance, but in truth, it likely won’t be thought of by morning. Sansa is not the only lady on the dance floor, and she has to force herself not to try and seek out Jaime, to see if her husband is caught up in this dance so she can poke fun later, when they next can meet. But there’s something that’s also _thrilling_ about this kind of danger, and while Sansa knows she is quite stuck in the Viper’s pit until he deems it time to release her...he certainly has a way of making it enjoyable.

It’s an interesting problem, and Sansa can’t remember having so much fun with a challenge...ever. Teasing quips and barbs are fun with Tyrion _now_ , but she can predict her good brother to an extent.

The Prince, she has no idea.

“There’s nothing to forgive, my Prince,” she waves off easily. It is a curiosity, this newfound stage that she and her sister have found themselves on. Their lessons, dagger or otherwise, haven’t gone unnoticed in King’s Landing, and while Sansa only joins in when it truly is necessary— or when Jaime gives her a certain look which reminds her exactly why she ought to know how to properly wield a dagger—all jokes aside, she does enjoy it. “I won’t deny that there is something...satisfying, in knowing how to properly wield a blade, Prince Oberyn, but I agreed only so that my sister could learn as well.” And it’s the truth of it. “Though I suppose, not all weapons come in the form of blades.”

His laughter causes them to misstep, and Sansa has to fight back her own laughter. The quip had been made purposefully, and while she hadn’t expected any sort of real reaction from the Prince....It reminds her that while this game is fun—for now—he is unpredictable. She lets him take charge once more and correct their timing before they’re off again.

“You should have said, My Prince,” she teases lightly. “Friend and ally can mean many different things.” Though his next words give her pause. Sansa isn’t entirely surprised, not given the nature of the current court and their crimes against House Martell. But when the Others come they could use all the help they could possibly get, and if there’s an opportunity for friendship with Dorne, an _alliance_ with Dorne... “Not all of the people of those lands,” she says with a kind smile.

“One friend out of the many of the Court?” Sansa’s gut instinct is to punt, to make another clever quip and hopefully distract the Prince from his question. But her other options include telling the truth—and potentially risking the safety of those she cares about—and lying.

She thinks he will see right through it, so she settles for something that is mostly the truth.

“Lord Varys.” And then she remembers that he’s asked for her reasoning as well. “The Master of Whispers sees everything, and will answer with the truth if asked for it.”

**_o b e r y n:_ **

To be honest, he almost think he’s hardly even fazing her. It might be galling, actually. He’ll decide later after some reflection. For now, he revels in the fact that she treats him like a person, a rare enough find in this keep. Whether it is pretense, naivete, or a genuine confidence beyond her years, it’s enjoyable for the time being. And she really is quite an accomplished dancer. 

His eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise. The image of this young woman in his arms wielding a blade is… tantalizing. She’s far too young for him, of course, but he can imagine her in a few years. “Satisfying, hm?” He hums, his mouth near her ear as he catches her from a twirl. “I too, find blades satisfying. Perhaps you’ve heard.” An innuendo if he’s ever made one, but he won’t scar the poor girl forever. Perhaps when she’s married, he’ll bring the idea up again. “Wielded well, they are as much a shield for you as they are an attack on someone else,” he continues, seriously now. How thrilling to be talking of well-wielded blades while in the arms of such a lovely thing. “How astute of you, my Lady. I’d say blades are the least lethal of weapons, except, of course, mine. Then again, I also coat my blades in poison, it works just as well,” he quips wryly, though he catches her meaning. Yes, weapons abound in King’s Landing. 

He looks down again, this time with less gaiety, and more intrigue. She’s quite astute, and not the kind of astuteness that comes from books or a septa. Where did this girl learn that allies do not always make good friends, and friends do not always make good allies? Surely not the North? The land famed for their thousands of years of fealty to her family? Although, one need only look at the friendship between her father and the king to seen a perfect example. “So I should’ve,” he muses contritely. 

This time, his smile is less sharp, and more genuine. The kind of smile the people of Dorne know and love, and is rarely seen by anyone outside his lands. “Perhaps my friends here may number four now,” he murmurs, just between the two of them. Very few things are as painful to him as the prejudice these lands have against his people. His brave, resilient, proud people. People who have so much to offer. It is her kindness in this moment that has told him the most about her this evening. Many will offer him flowery speech, but few will go so far as to actually welcome him outside his brother’s kingdom. She is a child, yes, but a kind one. He hopes this city doesn’t kill the kindness from her heart. The song is coming to a close, and Oberyn finds with surprise he actually regrets it. 

“A wise choice, my lady.” His gaze turns shrewd. “Though I do wonder how you know that.” Abruptly, he pulls away, and gives her a gallant, perhaps overstated bow, and kisses her hand. “If you are amenable, my lady, I would like to invite you and your siblings to spar. I have heard your bastard brother is quite talented with the sword as well.” No reason to tell her he’s already invited the other two. Might as well go for the full, intriguing set. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

She doesn’t need to be particularly clever to hear the innuendo dripping his voice, and the nearness of him—of how his words are practically brushed up against the skin of her ear—make it all too obvious. And yet even with all of his teasing, the Prince Oberyn is respectful in the steps he takes, in the teases he lightly lobs her way. There’s nothing imbued in his touch like the way it had been with Littlefinger, nothing that crosses any line or makes her long to bathe, to try and scrub her body clean for hours only to find no relief. This _isn’t_ Littlefinger, or Ramsay. It’s nothing but how ladies should be treated, courted, with an added flair from the Dornish Prince.

Even so, Sansa bites back her quip. Telling the Dornish Prince that she’s heard that he’s quite the master when it comes to wielding his blade is not fit for a young lady of her age. Instead her blush deepens, the spin only adding to the flush. A quick glance tells her the other ladies haven’t been spun so enthusiastically, and she can’t help her laugh as she all but collides back into him with all of the grace that the dance requires. “An interesting choice, Prince Oberyn.”

But it sparks an idea, something that will need to be researched in depth. Dragon glass had killed the dead the first time around, and fire – but what if there was a poison that could work on the Others too? What if there was a way to better arm the armies of men – and women – when they arrive?

She makes a quick note to ask the Prince the next time she sees him.

His new smile—something that looks much more genuine than the one she’s sure she’s seen him flash at the members of Court, considering she’s _positive_ she saw Loras Tyrell blush—makes him look that much more handsome. Sansa’s smile grows and she gives the hand that’s clutching onto hers a gentle squeeze as they dance. “I hope you believe that, Prince Oberyn."

The dance slowly comes to an end, and Sansa finds that even though she feels out of breath, the adrenaline keeps any and all exhaustion at bay. She had chosen her answer carefully, with as much thought and reason behind it as she could give given the time constraints of her test, and Sansa thinks she may have given him something to think about. His gallant bow and kiss are impressive, and likely in her past life would have caused her former self to properly swoon. Now she merely smiles prettily, and returns his efforts with a graceful curtsy. “We would be honored, My Prince. I shall pass along the invitation to _my brother_ as well.”

The Prince gives her a curious look with an arched eyebrow, before he nods and excuses himself.

She’ll have to tell Jaime everything later. Sansa figures she’ll go to the lessons that Prince Oberyn has offered, that it would be rude not to...But she’s not much of a sword fighter. She likes knowing that if she has to, if she ever ends up in the situation where a need arises, she will know what to do. Beyond that, her interest is limited.

“You look lovely tonight, Lady Sansa.”

She stiffens. She’ll never forget the way his voice drawled out her name, and even now he speaks with her as if there’s a familiarity there, despite the fact that in this life, she and Lord Baelish have barely spoken.

When Sansa turns to look at him, Littlefinger must see something written in her expression – or not enough – so he continues without a response.

“Forgive me for not making a proper introduction. I just had to see something for myself.”

“I’m sorry, do I—?” Sansa starts to ask, her voice even despite the fact that she knows this is what matters from this evening. He cannot suspect a thing, and while she’s sure that it’s Prince Oberyn’s attentions that drive him over here to inspect the situation for himself, she finds that she prays her husband isn’t paying attention. She’s warned him enough, but she is also aware that based on what she’s told him over the course of their marriage, Jaime will not hesitate if Littlefinger goes too far.

She needs Littlefinger alive. She needs him to play out his scheme in order to ensure that they can get what they want in the end.

“An old friend of the family,” he echoes the same words he once had at the Tourney of the Hand. “I’ve known your mother a long, long time.” Briefly she wishes that Arya were here, if only to echo her last question of why they called him Littlefinger.

_Do you deny your father’s crimes?_

_Do you deny it?_ She had echoed back.

“You looked so carefree, dancing with the Red Viper, I thought I must protect you from his ilk. King’s Landing can be dangerous for a young girl such as yourself, my lady.” He steps closer, and Sansa holds her ground, while wondering why he feels so bold when there’s such an audience. “I must, out of my friendship with your mother, keep a watchful eye.”

 _Yes, I imagine you would like to,_ she thinks.

“I don’t understand,” she says instead, and watches as Littlefinger smiles, ducks his head as if she’s said something so silly and simple that he just doesn’t know what to do with her.

“Ah, of course not. There are histories here, Lady Sansa. Histories written within these walls in blood. Is it not what you were expecting?” She doesn’t answer, but he’s not looking for one. “Has anyone told you the story of what happened during the aftermath of the rebellion – Of the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane?”

**_t y w i n:_ **

His children are idiots. 

Tywin Lannister watches Jaime dance with Margaery Tyrell, his fourth partner of the night, if Tywin is not mistaken. He’s already danced with three of the most eligible maidens of the kingdom, though they were all too young to be wed, and one of whom he was related to. Arya Stark was his first partner, an intriguing choice, if only because it was clear she had no intentions of accepting his invitation until he pointed to her feet and jabbed at her, as if he was aiming a sword at her belly. The girl had jumped back, but there had been a gleeful smile on her face, and she proceeded to wield her feet across the dance floor like they were maces for the rest of the set. He certainly _hopes_ Tyrion is not mistaken with which Stark sister Jaime has developed an attachment to, because he definitely seems to get along with that little mongrel. While interesting, she’s absolutely unfit to be Lady of Casterly Rock. 

There had the Tarly girl, who seemed to have an unfortunate penchant for giggling— _absurd_ —and of course, Jaime had danced with Myrcella the moment she was free. Margaery Tyrell though, she is a decent prospect and quite an ambitious choice for his son. If Tywin hadn’t guessed by now that this has all been an elaborate ruse, he might have applauded his son’s panache. She’s completely unsuitable, of course. She’d be a coup for any other bachelor, for sure, and perhaps she’ll do well for Joffrey. Certainly, the West could do worse for an ally than the Rose of Highgarden and all the food and fighting men that come with her. She’s welcome to any Lannister she wants, except for his heir. He won’t have some puffed up tulip turning Casterly Rock into an overgrown weed garden.

He has spied Sansa Stark though, and has been watching her whenever he hadn’t been watching Jaime. She is lovely, it’s true enough, but he’d wed Jaime to a wildling if he actually showed interest as long as she could promise him grandchildren, and count her sums. Tywin is not interested in Sansa’s Stark’s pretty face, for all that his son might be. She is poised, which is more promising. But Tyrion had said she seemed _formidable._ He certainly hasn’t seen anything suggesting such high praise. 

And then she starts to dance with Oberyn Martell, of all people, and Tywin begins to wonder. Surely the girl knows of his reputation, yes? He almost snorts. Ned Stark certainly does. The man looks one gust of wind from apoplexy. But Sansa seems relaxed and follows the dance with relative ease, despite how quickly the dancing has thinned out as Dornish music began to play. He watches as Oberyn laughs, eyes narrowed. Perhaps Sansa Stark is looking for bigger fish. Oberyn is a second son, but still a prince, and certainly a more dashing prince than Joffrey, who had been sent to his rooms earlier after throwing a wine goblet at the wall in a rage. He’s not her uncle or cousin, as are the heirs to both the Riverlands and the Vale, nor is he a cripple or a degenerate, as are the heir to the Reach and the Lord of Storm’s End. He’s not a kingsguard, either. Tywin bites back a curse, and keeps his gaze on Sansa as his son approaches. 

“Is there a reason you’re dancing with every eligible maiden in the room, Jaime?”

Tywin watches passively as the vein in Jaime’s jaw ticks. It’s done that since his first temper tantrum at the tender age of eleven moons old. How the entire room hasn’t clued in to the game Jaime and Sansa Stark are playing, he has no idea. _If only he knew_ what _that game was._

“Most men do not need a reason to dance with lovely women, father.”

“Most men do not, no.” Tywin replies, letting an unimpressed eyebrow say all the rest for him. 

“I merely realized how long it has been since I last danced. Too long, I think.”

Surely one of Tywin’s siblings taught his children to lie better than this? If not Genna, then at least Gerion? “Sansa Stark is catching quite the amount of attention tonight,” he says, instead, seeing no reason to play coy. He’ll give his son an opening. One chance to come clean. 

Jaime, as unenterprising as ever, does not take it. “Ned Stark’s daughter? Yes. A new face, I’m sure.”

Very well then. “So you haven’t been instructing her and her sister to wield a sword?” Jaime has five-and-thirty namedays, and yet he still looks like he swallowed a lemon every time Tywin uses that tone of voice. He’d learned that neat trick from Joanna. 

“Ah, you’ve heard of that. I thought it prudent to—”

This time, he doesn’t even need words to stop his son short. He says nothing, letting the silence do his work for him. Perhaps he should give Tyrion more credit for this particular bit of information. At the time, he’d thought the imp had gone mad, or had been exaggerating. It’s clear though, he had been onto something. If Jaime _has_ despoiled the girl, Tywin would rather move fast than hedge his bets. It all rests on the damn kingsguard. 

It’s so like Aerys to keep driving him mad even so many years after his death. 

“It’s a shame she doesn’t have one now,” he says, watching as Petyr Baelish comes up behind her. The girl visibly tenses, but Tywin is much more interested in the way she relaxes slowly afterward. She is not relaxed, no, though she looks much more natural now than she had a moment ago. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say she just put up a front. A very, very good one.

“Father?”

He has no strong feelings for Petyr Baelish one way or another. He’s a horrible Master of Coin from the way the Lannister mines have been so regularly called upon these last years, but it suits Tywin just fine at the moment. After all, if he hadn’t wanted to loan the coin, he wouldn’t have. The crown owes him a great deal, and it is always useful to have others in your debt. Still, this situation is obviously to his advantage. He doesn’t know Jaime’s feelings on the subject either, but judging from how tense he had been following the Prince of Dorne’s display, the glorified pimp standing far too close to the Stark girl will not fare any better. “Sansa. It’s a shame she doesn’t have a sword now. Brandon Stark couldn’t finish the job but perhaps she’s made of stronger stuff.” 

Tywin moves his gaze from Sansa to his son, and watches in carefully concealed astonishment as Jaime transforms from slightly irritated but generally good spirited knight to battle-hardened soldier in an instant. 

“Excuse me, father,” his son says, pushing his goblet of water absently into Tywin’s hand and taking off toward the dance floor. 

He takes a sip from it himself, and thinks. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

_I can handle Littlefinger,_ she had said. 

And he knows she has plans, knows she’s weaving herself a pretty little web with Varys’ spider silk, but he can’t, he _can’t._ Even from here, he can tell her body language is all wrong. Oberyn might have made his blood boil, but at least Sansa had been smiling. He’s jealous, yes, but he’s not Sansa’s _master._ She can have as many dances with as many men as she wants, but he can see from here, she doesn’t want this one. 

It could be a part of her plan, but it’s a _shitty_ plan if she’s so uncomfortable he can spot it from across the room. 

So intent in his rescue he is, that he doesn’t notice that Tywin’s gaze has yet to leave him. And neither has Cersei’s. Or Jon’s. 

“The Mountain? Surely not a tale for such a beautiful night as this, _Lord Baelish._ My apologies for the interruption, Lady Sansa,” he says with a dashing bow—lower than Oberyn’s—and a lingering kiss on her knuckles. “But I worry such a distressing tale would be most unfit for the ears of a lady.” _Tell me to kill him, Sansa and I will gut him where he stands._

Baelish’s lips thin, and his smile is as charming as a worm’s. “A cautionary tale only, Ser Jaime. As I was just telling the Lady, I’m an old friend—”

“I’m in dire need of a dance partner, Lady Sansa,” Jaime says interrupting Baelish without a whit of regret or remorse. “I believe my sister approaches and her royal feet are much too fine for mine to trod all over. You must do your duty to the crown and spare her feet the agony, I implore you.” The words are all charm, but his focus is still with Baelish. The man is watching them closely, _too_ closely, and the looks he sends Jaime is chilling. He had never gotten the chance to make an enemy of Petyr Baelish in his last life. 

He’s always loved trying new things. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

Sansa remembers the story quite vividly from the first time, watching as the Mountain had killed the man from the Vale, if she remembers that particular tidbit correctly. She wonders briefly if he tells his story this time because of her last dancing partner, if he had been spying even then and had thought to tie in the story of Ser Gregor Clegane and what he had done to Prince Oberyn’s sister. Perhaps once she wouldn’t have believed it, would have chalked things up to coincidence and let the terrible thought move to the back of her mind. Now, though, she knows better.

Her mind races, tries to figure out what she can say to gauge anything without raising suspicion, but anything beyond a scared little girl will do it. He expects the sheltered daughter of Catelyn and Ned Stark, someone who doesn’t deserve his attention while he attempts to manipulate good men, better men, that he weasels into trusting him. If ever there was a time to act like the little bird she once was, this is it, and it takes everything in her not to dismiss him with a quip and walk away.

It’s her husband’s voice that answers the question for her and Sansa manages to swallow her sigh. She had hoped he would stay away, stay clear of Petyr Baelish and out of the mess until... Well, until he’s quite literally in the middle of it. She knows him, better than just about anybody, and standing and making pleasantries with this man will not happen.

“Ser Jaime,” she responds in kind, and while she doesn’t laugh outright, Tully blue eyes dance with her laughter as she watches him, the picture of gallantry. Her thumb gently rubs along the fingers that hold onto hers in secret greeting. She is here, she is his, and all of this is for a purpose.

Prince Oberyn can charm, flirt, and dance all he wants. None of it all compares to the love she holds for this man.

Her husband cuts off Littlefinger as if he never heard him in the first place. _Jaime_ , she thinks fondly, but she’s in no position to rebuke him. He’s a member of the Kingsguard, he ranks higher than that of Baelish even, and it’s the perfect escape to give Littlefinger just enough without giving away anything at all.

“My feet are yours to trod all over, Ser. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Baelish,” Sansa says, all demure smiles before she easily falls back into a dance—thankfully a much slower paced one—with her husband.

It’s the first time they’ve danced since...Perhaps after the victory at the Battle of Winterfell, and yet her body remembers his touch, his call, easily. She falls into step naturally, and waits until Littlefinger is distracted by something, someone else before she finally feels it’s safe enough to speak.

“I’m alright,” she whispers to him before he can ask, and her lips pull into a content smile. This, him, this is what will make all of the uncomfortable moments, the unpleasantries, worth it. “Though you don’t look particularly carefree for someone who’s been dancing much of the night of the way.” It’s a quiet jape, and while she longs to step closer, to call him husband, she knows they are being watched. Carefully. “Is everything okay?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He’s all too happy to pull Sansa away and let the tide of dancers sweep them away from the stain of a man that had been harassing her. Sansa wastes no time in reassuring him that she’s alright, and he knows she is, he hadn’t doubted it really. But he also knows she’s not. 

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and smiles wryly. “I think your sister broke my toe. I had to lure her to the floor under the guise of a footwork exercise, and she took full advantage.” It’s hard to remember to keep her at an appropriate distance, to not let his face look too fondly. They might be able to talk with some degree of privacy like this, but they are still very much on display right now, and perhaps in more danger than they have ever been. 

“I’m sorry, I just…” Jaime trails off. How can he explain to her the line he’s apparently drawn in the sand? Oberyn he will suffer through, Loras and hells, even _Joffrey_ he can force himself to turn a blind eye to, because he _knows_ if she didn’t want it to be happening, it wouldn’t be. But Baelish… 

He doesn’t care if the man holds the key to saving Westeros in his very hand. Sansa shouldn’t have to be the one dealing with him. Varys has arranged enough assassinations in his day, surely he could come up with something? Jaime can do it right now if she wants, _happily._ It’s just… “You were tense, Sansa. Your face looked serene, and I’m sure your words were perfect and he wouldn’t have seen anything amiss, but…” He reels her in after releasing one hand to open them to one side and lets his hand slide just the very slightest up her back. “Right here, it’s where you hold all your tension when you’re upset. You didn’t want to be talking to him.” And that’s that. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

She can’t help it, she laughs. It’s a natural thing, and probably enough to give rise for people to start to wonder exactly what the knight said to cause such a laugh, but the happiness swells in her chest despite where they currently are. They may be stuck in King’s Landing, but until the day she dies in this life, and in any other life the Gods seem fit to bring her back to should they fail, Sansa doesn’t think she will _ever_ believe that Arya Stark had danced _willingly_ with Jaime Lannister in a roomful of Lords and Ladies. Even if she had caught glimpses of it with her own eyes.

“Only the Gods know how you managed to escape such a battle with only a broken toe. You must have exhausted each and every military strategy known.” Her sister is safe in King’s Landing, or as safe as any one person can be in the city. She is training and will soon be trained by Prince Oberyn Martell as well. She can’t wait to tell Arya, knows she should tell Jaime as well, but those are the type of conversations that must happen when they are not the current center of attention within the room.

At least for some people.

Each discrete touch she can steal, Sansa uses to her advantage. Her fingers brush along the skin of his hand, the inside of his wrist. “I’m not upset.” If she needs to clarify, this is something she’ll happily explain. “I’m happy to take and use any excuse to dance with you, Ser.”

It is a hard ask, to have Jaime try and ignore Petyr Baelish, while he holds the knowledge of everything the Lord has done to her, and would do to her if given the chance. Littlefinger would have sat on the Iron Throne with her beside him if he could have made it come to be, even after he had sold her to the Boltons.

She shivers at his touch for an entirely different reason, and gives him a quick look, one eyebrow raised.

He’s right though, and even after all this time, it still _baffles_ her that Jaime can read her so easily.

Sansa falls back into step with him, her hand holding onto his just a little more tightly. “I didn’t. You always know when to step in.” It’s no real great hardship to admit. “But there’s a lot of things I must do that I don’t necessarily want to.” She wants to go home. She wants to be with him, wherever their home will be in this life even if it still feels as if that title belongs to Winterfell. “But right now I would like to dance with _you_ , and forget about Littlefinger, or the Prince...Any prince,” she teases. There’s a small pause and she grows slightly more serious. “Everything will be fine, Jaime.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

They should know better than to be together in public, he thinks, as a smile he simply cannot restrain takes over his face. They’re just too _happy_ together. It’s a problem he and Cersei had never had, but then again, Cersei had always _adored_ being miserable. She wouldn’t know what to do with happiness if it dropped a crown on her head and called her queen. 

Sansa, though… Sansa was _made_ for happiness. Her smile changes the shape of her entire face, and he remembers even now the first time he had truly seen it. But here, happiness is like blood in the water and they are standing in a room full of sharks. He doesn’t speak about Arya again; they can speak of happy moments later. 

Her touch grounds him, the secret caress he knows she has risked to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Just say the word, and you can have my every dance,” he says quietly, just for her ears alone. It doesn’t mean anything really, they’re already all hers. It’s just the claiming them that will take some time. 

He nods, ready to accept that he had overstepped, but she doesn’t push him away, doesn’t call him stupid or rage at his idiocy the way his sister would have. She just makes the best of things, the way she always does. No matter what happens to Sansa Stark, she will make the best of it. “You’re extraordinary,” he breathes, because he can’t _not._ “But yes. We will be talking about _princes,”_ he says with faux (mostly faux) aggravation. There’s a quick lift in the dance, and when he brings her down, he does so slightly closer and slower than is probably advisable. Ah well, they’re already probably fucked sideways between his father and sister and Baelish and _Oberyn._ Might as well make it worth their while. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

His smile is _contagious_ , and for a moment Sansa is struck by just how happy he makes her. This plan will work, it must work, because they’re running out of time. Their night in the small home Varys had managed to put together just outside of Flea Bottom is only part of it, it had allowed them a part of their marriage that they hadn’t been able to have since she came back to this new life.

But in doing that, Sansa can’t help but think that now time will move faster. She hadn’t been joking with her impatience, and she had spent all of their marriage, and moons before that, making her own choices without having to worry about the judgment and look of others. Even the Lords of the North had been easier to convince, and now that she’s had it...It’s all she wants.

Selfish girl that she is. Any fear that bubbles up is quickly shoved aside to be dealt with later. So far everything has gone according to plan. The added slight of both a Stark and Lannister will likely reinforce Petyr Baelish’s original idea to start a war between the two Houses.

They will be safe and together. And then, as promised, she will help Varys where she can, while also ensuring victory and life for the people she loves.

She can’t meet his eyes after that particular declaration. If she does, her eyes will fill up with tears—the happy kind, the kind where she feels so much love that she’s positive she can’t stand it—and there will be no explaining it. Instead she plays her game, and slowly begins to trace her message on the inside of his wrist.

_I love you._

“Soon,” she promises instead. 

“Jaime—” She doesn’t get to finish though, because then there’s that tone and she somehow manages not to laugh as he lifts her in the air. “Whatever for?” She knows what for. Sansa knows her husband, and knows he’s prone to jealousy, especially when there’s no reason for it. “Prince Oberyn offered to help train Arya,” she says instead, her hand landing a little higher on his neck so she can slide it to the proper position, and gives her husband a sheepish smile for good measure.

Her voice drops lower, but her smile remains in place. “Do you remember when I told you things would get worse?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He must look besotted, he thinks. He _feels_ besotted. And what’s more, when she makes him these promises, he _believes them._ Sansa had been the only person willing to stand up to Daenerys at the end, the only one willing to tell her she was making a mistake. Sansa is _brilliant_ . Her mind goes beyond strategies and manipulation. She understands people, and she _cares_ about them. It’s all too rare of a combination in Westeros, as they had found in their last life. 

Yes, Sansa had played the game of thrones last time, and she had died. But it hadn’t been her mistake that had brought about her end, it had been _his._ He knows she won’t make any mistakes, and vows that he won’t either. Not this time. He scrapes her palm gently with his thumbnail in reply, spying his sister’s eyes on them. He puts a little more space between them, albeit reluctantly. 

Jaime looks down at her and smiles ruefully. Somehow, despite being the one to _ask_ Oberyn to train Arya, he’s jealous. He’s a grown man, twice-over, and he’s being ridiculous, he knows. He has no intentions of _acting_ on said jealousy, and Sansa has never toyed with him the way Cersei had, but even so many years later, the insecurities Cersei had so carefully cultivated still run deep. “Good,” Jaime says, spying Arya standing with Jon off to one side. Her mouth is going a mile a minute, and Jon is actually grinning for a change. “Good,” he says again. Everywhere he looks there are children smiling, and people laughing. No one is threatening anyone with crossbows or wildfire or dragons. War waits on the horizon, yes, but it’s a long way off, if Sansa has anything to say about it. 

They are at _peace._ This is a realm they could have children in, he realizes. The thought stuns him for a minute. It hadn’t been an option in their last life, and they hadn’t had enough time regardless. But suddenly he wants it so badly he can hardly _breathe._

Then reality crashes back in. 

“Yes…” he says, prompting her to continue, still feeling slightly off-kilter. Can they actually have children? _She_ can’t, not yet, for obvious reasons, but… if the realm doesn’t descend into chaos, they _know_ how to defeat the Night King, they _know_ it can be done. Still, the thought of his children coming face to face with a wight makes him want to gag. “This is typically where you follow that with _‘before it gets better,’_ ” he reminds her. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

Briefly she wonders if it will be too much to just slide into the next dance, as if it’s just an extension of the one they’re doing now. If it looks as if they just haven’t noticed that it’s a completely different dance, and they continue until it’s well past an appropriate time for her to still be there. Sansa knows better. It’s too great a risk, especially when they have already gained the full attention of Cersei’s ire—and she’s sure her comment paired with Margaery Tyrell having been wrapped up in the knight’s arms had not helped matters much. 

Patience. Her husband has brought it up many times, and she supposes that if he can manage his patience for seventeen years and then some, she can wait a few more days, moons...however long it takes. He may not know it, but Sansa is asking a lot of him, asking for a lot of trust that while he may perceivably be in much danger, that she somehow has control of the situation and that it will work out. 

Her stomach coils at the thought. There will be no way to tell him, no way to explain what’s happening once the plan starts moving forward. If Varys does his part, if her father does the honorable thing once provided with the truth, King Robert will be subdued. At least where it comes to her husband. The children will have to be taken care of. They’re innocents. Her father will stand up for them, she and Varys will make arrangements in the underbelly of the Red Keep if necessary. But Sansa lifts no finger for that of Cersei Lannister. And mayhaps she _should._ The woman hasn’t yet committed the many crimes against her or against her family. Sansa is not one of the Gods, it’s not truly her right to decide who lives or dies in this life. Does she hold the previous crimes against the woman now? Blue eyes flicker briefly in the direction of the Queen, who in the moment looks more unhinged than Sansa ever remembers. It’s subtle, but she sees it. 

Would her husband feel the same loss? 

Can she risk it a second time?

_No._

Everyone had underestimated Cersei, had brushed her aside as the lesser threat to that of the Night King and his army of the dead. Even Tyrion, who she had once believed to be the cleverest man she ever knew, had underestimated his sister. She will not, and she will not afford Cersei Lannister any amount of power that will land them in the same situation ever again. 

“Good,” she echoes, albeit somewhat far away. Her husband. 

It’s the subtle touches she shares with her husband, the ones he shares just as willingly that bring her back to the present, and her smile grows ever so slightly, as it always had when he had been near in Winterfell. “I am only yours,” she whispers quietly, just barely loud enough for even him to hear it. 

“Yes,” she says softly, quickly to reassure any doubt. “It may not look like it, but it will.” _Do not despair, Husband. Nothing will happen to you._ But she cannot tell him. She cannot have anything more than genuine reactions if they are to sell this entire con. “It will happen soon, Jaime. Within the sennight, I think. Sooner perhaps.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

All of the stress and worry and fear—the _reality_ of their situation—suddenly seeps into all the spaces between them. She’s gone quiet, and Jaime has to bite back a sigh. He wants children with her, and he wants her to smile, and he wants her to not have to plan and scheme and deal with monsters just to keep herself and her family safe. 

They’ve fought these battles already. They deserve _peace_. 

She’s warned him now, twice, and while he knew she had said it would be bad, it’s only just hitting him now how high her threshold for ‘bad’ is. He nods sharply, not trusting himself to speak anymore. 

He is _afraid._

“You will be okay?” He asks, throat tight, though he knows she can’t promise him anything. They’re not supposed to put themselves in danger, they had made a pact. He _has_ to believe she remembers, that she’ll keep up her end of the deal. “You’ll carry a dagger— _two_ daggers, on you at all times, Sansa. And Jon stays with you and Arya at _all_ times.” He has no authority to be making these demands. No one _knows_ he’s her husband, and her siblings are not part of his guard, but he knows she’ll heed him anyway. She’s probably already thought of it. 

The dance ends soon, not yet, but too soon, and his grip on her hand in his tightens. He’s not ready to let go yet. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

The urge to tell him everything, to tell him what she’s planned on happening is overwhelming. To knowingly send him to the Black Cells for a crime he has not even committed in this life, to be at the mercy of the King for even a short amount of time makes it hard to _breathe_ . It will not come to that. Sansa knows it won’t, and that he will be safe because the King won’t have a chance to so much as lay eyes on her husband until he is made aware of the truth. Robert Baratheon’s need to humiliate the Lannister name for his own wife’s slight will give them everything they need to become stronger, and to be able to be _together._

_Forgive me for all of this Jaime, please._

Varys will get him out if it’s necessary. She has no doubt. Her last comment to the Spider had been entirely pointed to ensure he understands the severity of this request. Demand. 

Sansa Stark cannot do this without Jaime Lannister. She cannot lose him, not now. 

She notices the way her husband’s jaw clenches, and she longs to comfort him, to pull him into her arms and make all the promises she can. “I’ll be okay.” In this, she has no choice. Her worry has no place here, nothing can paralyze her from acting when she must, and _how she must_. But it is time to act, time to start making the changes they must have been brought back to make, to right everything that had gone wrong. 

This is the start. 

“I will,” she agrees easily. The daggers are always an afterthought, something forgotten up until the last possible moment. But Arya will be by her side, she knows more than anyone of what’s to come apart from herself and Varys. Jon will not leave their sides either. She doesn’t know what their father has said to her brother, but whatever it had been is enough to make it nearly impossible to sneak past him, when she even succeeds anymore. Jon is diligent in his duties, not only because their father has asked, but because of who he’s meant to stick close to. 

His grip tightens, and Sansa knows they are out of time. Her hand squeezes his, and she dips into the curtsy that the end of the song demands. “No matter what you hear,” she adds in a last whisper, “stay near Myrcella and Tommen.” 

She knows her husband won’t abandon his duty, his post, not when it’s his niece and nephew. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

So this is it. The children’s parentage will come out soon. Jaime nods, still not relinquishing her hand. He can escort her back to her father at the very least, to ensure Baelish can’t corner her again. 

She thinks Robert will go after them, he realizes. He remembers pushing Bran out the window of that tower so many years ago to prevent just that thing. They aren’t his children in this life, but he loves them even more, perhaps because he knows what it is to lose them. _Do you remember when I said it would get worse?_ He recalls. Not like that though, he knows she wouldn’t risk them, not ever. This is his job, this is the part he has to play, he must protect the children. 

He nods again, sharply. He wonders what her plans are, because anything that results in a fight between him and the kingsguard will result in his death, one way or another. Either he dies in the skirmish, or he’s put to the death for breaking his vows. Perhaps she means for him to smuggle the children out? With Varys on their side, it’s doable, as long as he has enough warning. Joffrey will be problematic, but he can knock the boy out and sling him over a shoulder if he has to. He will not fail those children in this life. 

They begin to exit the dance floor, Sansa’s hand on his elbow, rather than held in his. He misses it already. They don’t make it to the edge before someone catches his other arm, and _tugs._

“Brother dear. Don’t tell me you forgot? You’ll excuse us, Little Dove. My brother has saved his Queen this dance,” Cersei coos, her voice saccharine, but her nails like claws in his arms. _Gods damn it._ He can’t even manage a squeeze to Sansa’s palm before Cersei has dragged him away. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

It’s the best warning she can give him. Anything more than that and he’ll be able to piece enough of it together. Her husband may jape constantly about not being able to keep up, but he’s much brighter than he gives himself credit for. It will be okay. He will be as safe as he can be given the circumstances, and the children too. They are _innocent_ , and they won’t pay for the sins and choices of their mother. Not even Joffrey, no matter how appealing Arya’s suggestion had been. 

She can see the look her father wears as they draw closer, and Sansa can’t decipher what he’s thinking. Whatever is on Lord Eddard Stark’s mind, it’s certainly got most of his attention. She smiles, and turns to bid her husband farewell as any young girl with dreams of songs and knights would after a dance with the most famous of them all, when the Queen’s voice interrupts. 

The last thing Sansa wants to do is leave her husband in Cersei’s grip, but there is nothing she can do. The only comforting thought is that soon the blonde Queen won’t be able to do such a thing again, and so Sansa nods with a quick, “Your Grace, Ser Jaime,” before she sneaks off. 

Jon denies her the next dance, no matter how hard she tries, and even a jape of practicing footwork as Arya had with Jaime is not enough to convince him. Sansa is graceful in her defeat, though she promises her brother that she’ll get a dance eventually, before she begins to make her excuses. She’s tired, too tired of courtly games, and even if rest won’t come outside of the bed in a certain house outside of Flea Bottom, she ought to rest. 

The game is on, and it’s why she slips a small note to the young kitchen maid who is lurking in the shadows just before she leaves. On the parchment is a very simple message, the very one Varys had sent when announcing himself to the Lady of Winterfell. 

_Valar dohaeris._

**_t y w i n:_ **

_Yes, Tyrion was right,_ Tywin thinks. Jaime knows Sansa Stark better than he wants people to believe. The girl rests in his arms as if there is no place more comfortable, that line of stiff tension Baelish had introduced in her spine melting away beneath his son’s hand. They are talking, too, and though Tywin cannot fathom what they speak of, the range of emotion they cover in one dance is boggling. There is laughter, smirks, irritation, and then a sudden almost jarring tension. Neither looks _angry_ per se. The Stark girl is not storming away in a petulant huff, nor has she forced Jaime to let a more decent amount of space rest between them, but they are both clearly upset about something. 

Perhaps it’s his place on the kingsguard stymying their love? _Wishful thinking_ , he thinks with a scoff, and trades Jaime’s water goblet for a rare goblet of wine. He has no urgent business to attend on this visit—other than solving the issue of his heir’s marriageability once and for all—so he can afford to indulge and frankly the mystery Jaime has posed has him believing he’ll need it. 

The song comes to a close, and Sansa still has her arm tucked into his elbow, and they stand rather close together. It seems she will not be dancing this next set. Etiquette does not demand that Jaime escort her off the dance floor, but he seems intent on it anyway. Perhaps to prevent another incident with Baelish? Is he trying to keep her from any potential suitors? He has no way of knowing, unless he asks, and he’s contemplating doing just that when Cersei, his _idiot_ of a daughter, yanks Jaime away without so much as a by-your-leave. It’s no secret that Cersei despises most women. He and her are even in agreement that most women are vapid, faint-hearted creatures unsuited for politics. He, however, does not think _all_ women are vapid, faint-hearted creatures unsuited for politics, just most. Including his daughter. Cersei’s vanity and pride far outweigh what little intelligence he and Joanna managed to pass onto her, much to his disappointment. 

He’ll have to observe Jaime and Ned Stark another time, it seems. For now, he turns his gaze away from his children, and follows Sansa as she makes her way back to her family. She and her bastard brother speak for awhile, and Tywin decides perhaps it’s time for him to make his own judgements regarding the girl who may very well be the next lady of Casterly Rock. 

Just as he’s about to reach her, Sansa pauses, and bends beside a young girl, probably a servant meant to pick up discarded goblets and the like. Eyes narrowed, he watches as she clutches the girls hand in both of hers then strides away as if nothing happened. 

“You there, girl,” he says after Sansa turns the corner. The girl’s eyes widen, and she jolts backward. The only thing that keeps her from sprinting away is Tywin’s hand snaked around her tiny arm. “What did she give you?” he demands. The girl’s hands instant dart to her pockets, and Tywin wrenches her hand free, and pulls out a tightly clutched scroll. “Who are you meant to deliver this to?” He asks, voice sharp. The girl says nothing and he shakes her violently. “ _Tell me_ **_who,_ ** _girl._ ” Suddenly, she stomps on his foot and takes off. He curses, considers sending guards after her, but knows she’ll likely disappear before they find anything. 

Unrolling the scroll, Tywin’s brow furrows in consternation. _Valar Dohaeris?_ Where had Sansa Stark even _heard_ such a phrase? His first thought is that the girl is somehow an agent of the Targaryens. But that’s absurd, the Targaryens murdered her grandfather, uncle, and aunt. Surely she wouldn’t be sympathetic, and even if she was, the girl hasn’t left the North in her life before this trip. How would she even have managed to contact them? 

His next thought is _Braavos._ Those are the words of the city of Braavos. Perhaps the Iron Bank? But surely they wouldn’t choose a child as their ambassador…

He freezes, chilled. 

Not the faceless men, surely. Very little is known about the faceless men, except that they are very, very expensive. How would Sansa figure into a plot with the faceless men? She doesn’t have the means to afford an assassination by the faceless men, and she can’t be a _part_ of the order...can she? They are never seen, nor heard. Sansa has been twirling away on the dance floor. 

None of this sounds plausible. 

He thumbs the words on the note. _Formidable,_ Tyrion had called her. 

Hmm. He needs to have a meeting with Sansa Stark.


End file.
